Always Yours
by HarleyMarie
Summary: Three men, three lovers back home, one war. WWII will change the lives of Francis, Ludwig, and Alfred as they try to make it home to the ones they love. Filled with triumphs, tragedy, heartbreak, healing, love, and loss, nothing will ever be the same for them.
1. Alfred: July 1944

Alfred F. Jones stood under the glittering lights of the Chase county fair with his best friend, James Smith. The heat of the day was slowly ebbing away with each passing minute, and it was looking to be a cool evening. Perfect for their last night in the States together.

"So what do you think it'll be like?" James asked absentmindedly. "Europe… The war… Killing Nazis…" He kicked up a plume of dust with the toe of his dress shoes. "I mean, they don't tell us what to expect, just what we're supposed to do, you know?"

Alfred took a long drag on the cigarette he'd been smoking for the last few minutes and didn't say anything for a moment. "I don't know," he sighed as he flicked the ash away with a tap of his finger. "I guess it's just gonna be what we make of it. I mean, I don't want to kill anyone any more than the next guy. But that's just war I guess. There's good guys and bad guys." He eyed what's left of his cigarette before tossing it away. "What about you?"

"Same." James suddenly became quiet, deep in thought.

"I know what you're thinking," Alfred muttered.

"No, you don't." James spat. He hastily pulled out a cigarette from his pack and stuck it between his teeth. "You got a light?" Alfred fished into his pocket and tossed him his matchbook. He caught it without glancing up. "The thing is," he said as he struck the match, the orange flame illuminating his face in the dark, "you're never really sure who the good guys are, and who the bad guys are." He lit his cigarette and shook the match until the flame died. Smoke clouded his face, and in that moment Alfred could have sworn that James looked a hundred years old. "Here." James held out the matchbook for Alfred to take. Alfred didn't say anything for a second, then replied with a curt, "Keep it. I have another." James stood there with his arm extended and refused to move. The two locked eyes, and the air was suddenly cold between them. Alfred had never seen James like this, and he had never been more scared for him in his whole life.

The two nineteen-year-olds remained silent until James pocketed the matchbook and spoke up cheerily, "Okay, this is no way to be spending our last night home. Let's have some fun!" "What exactly do you have in mind?" Alfred asked, a hint of playful suspicion in his voice. Now, it was as if nothing strange had happened at all. The real James was back.

"Well… We didn't wear these uniforms for nothing, now did we?" James gestured to his uniform, all the way from his cover to his shoes. Alfred raised his eyebrows playfully. "So you're suggesting that we find a girl?" "Why not? We need someone to write home to, might as well be a pretty someone at that!" James punched Alfred in the arm and started toward the ferris wheel, where a group of squealing girls were waiting to get on. After a few steps, James looked back to see Alfred still standing where he was. "Come on, Marine! Let's go!"

Alfred barely heard him. He was too distracted by what he thought was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. He had happened to glance to his left when he saw her. She was standing in the cotton candy line in a cherry red dress, her brunette hair cascading down her back in a waterfall of curls, and he was surprised that she stood alone. "I'll catch up with you later," Alfred yelled in James' direction. James looked toward where Alfred was looking, smiled, and gave a big thumbs up before turning back to the group of girls he was heading toward. "Meet you later!" James yelled behind him.

Alfred started toward the cotton candy stand and the girl, but stopped and fixed his hair, cover, blouse, glasses, even dusted off his shoes before resuming his walk, all with his heart pounding fast in his chest. As he pulled up alongside her, he didn't say anything for a moment. His mouth was dry from nerves, and he just knew that if he opened up his mouth, he'd make a fool of himself. As he thought of what to say, the girl turned to face him. She looked him over from head to toe and asked brightly,

"Soldier, huh?"

She took Alfred completely off guard, and it took a few seconds for him to respond.

"No, no ma'am."

"No?"

"Marine, ma'am."

She smiled and replied, "I know, I was just playing. My brother is a Marine."

"Semper fi, ma'am."

"And my name's not 'ma'am' Marine, it's Sara Jane. Sarah Jane Elliot."

"Private Alfred F. Jones, ma-sorry, Sarah." "I always did like Sarah Jane better."

"Then Sarah Jane it is. Pleased to meet you."

"And you."

Sarah Jane smiled, then pointed at the line of people in front of them. "This is one heck of a line," she said, "and I've never really been a cotton candy kind of girl. Wanna go walk somewhere?"

Alfred almost asked her why she was in the line in the first place, but he just nodded his head. "Sure. Any ideas where?" "Not really," Sarah Jane replied, "just around. You still in?" "Yeah, if you are." "Then come on!" Sarah Jane grabbed onto Alfred's arm and started to pull him down the rows of food carts and game booths, weaving in between bodies as gracefully as a dancer. Alfred laughed behind her, and he could feel deep down inside that this was going to be a night to remember.

He made up his mind that if he had to write to someone, or hopefully come home to someone, he hoped that it would be her. With that thought, he gripped Sarah Jane's hand just a little bit tighter, and she did the same.

The night passed all too quickly, and Alfred couldn't remember the last time he had laughed so much. Whether he was laughing at himself, at Sarah Jane's crazy exploits, or just for the sake of laughing, he didn't care. He was just happy to be spending this last night with this beautiful, funny, smart, amazing girl called Sarah Jane Elliot. He learned that she was deathly afraid of heights when they made it to the top of the ferris wheel after she had both of her arms around him in a death grip until they stepped off, both doubled over laughing. He also found out she had a killer throwing arm when she tried to knock down a pyramid of milk bottles with a baseball and ended up breaking three of them. Once she heard the glass break, she yanked Alfred away by the hand and they ran off to behind a row of tents, dodging people with every step, where they ducked in one particularly colorful tent under a flap to find themselves in a room full of mirrors, where Sarah Jane collapsed into Alfred's arms in a heap of giggles. He was laughing too, and he didn't realize he was holding Sarah Jane until they had both stopped giggling and the air was already still and thick with their breathing. The sounds all around seemed to slowly die until it was just the pounding of their two hearts in the dark. Neither of them spoke, neither of them moved. Sarah Jane searched Alfred's eyes, then whispered something that he could barely hear.

"Do you want to dance?"

Alfred frowned. "I'm pretty bad at it. I'd hate to step on your toes."

"I'm sure you're fine." Sarah Jane raised an eyebrow, and she looked almost concerned. "I almost forgot. There's no music."

Alfred smiled and whispered in Sarah Jane's ear, "I can fix that."

Sarah Jane let out a breathy, almost half laugh before letting Alfred take her hand and her waist, and she lightly touched her cheek to his. Alfred closed his eyes and began to hum the first song that came into his mind.

After a moment, Sarah Jane whispered, "I know this song… It's Vera Lynn, right? 'I'll Be Seeing You Again'?"

Alfred smiled, and started to sing softly into her ear. Her hair tickled his lips with each word, and as he swayed slowly in the dark, he realized that he had discovered something beautiful.

"I'll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places… that my heart and mind embraces all day through…"

"Alfred," Sarah Jane whispered, "Do you have someone to write home to?"

Alfred stopped singing and stood still. "I'll be honest with you." Sarah Jane faced him so that she could look at him in the eyes. "No, I don't have anyone to write home to." Sarah Jane frowned. "Not… Not another… You know…" "No, not another girl," Alfred said quietly. Sarah Jane just looked at him, and he continued with a laugh. "I've never really had too much luck with girls."

She smiled. "I have a hard time believing that." Alfred laughed again. "You'd better start believing, it's true."

Sarah Jane stood up on her tip toes and draped her arms around Alfred's shoulders. "Write me." "Alright, I will…" "No. Write me. Write me every day, every time you stop marching, every time you're lonely, every time you just want to connect with something familiar, write me. Promise?" She pulled a handkerchief and a pen from the bag that she was carrying. Using his chest to write on, she wrote her home address on the handkerchief, folded it up, and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers. "Do you promise?"

Alfred gently took Sarah Jane's face in his hands and drew it close to his. He bent down so that his lips were a fraction of an inch from hers before he whispered, "I promise."

At first, the kiss was gentle, tentative, slow, until it built in passion and desire. Each was feeding from the other, running fingers through hair and over skin.

Sarah Jane pulled away an inch. "Alfred, promise me that you'll come home. I know it hasn't been long but-"

Alfred put a finger over her lips and brushed some stray hair away from her face before answering.

"I promise you that I will come home to you."

"You'd better."

The air was still for a moment. Neither one of them moved. Alfred was the one to break the silence.

"Are you sure about this?"

She paused and looked away, biting her lip. After a couple of seconds, she looked back into Alfred's eyes. She was smiling.

"My car."

Alfred stood on the train platform the next morning at five minutes until eight, his seabags at his feet and his cover in his hand. He expected to see James, since he wasn't supposed to ship out until next week, but he had yet to meet him.

Alfred checked the clock on the wall behind him. Still a few minutes until he had to leave. He sighed, and stuck his free hand into his pocket, and grinned when his fingers brushed up against Sarah Jane's handkerchief. He pulled it out and smiled at the flowing strokes, the little heart drawn at the bottom, her name. Proof that last night happened. He already had the address memorized, along with the note on the bottom. 'You promised' was all that it said.

A sharp whistle drew Alfred out of his daze, and he glanced at the clock again. Three minutes early, he thought. He carefully folded the handkerchief and slipped it back into his pocket. Placing his cover on his head, he grabbed his seabags and, instead of heading for the train car, he headed for the nearest mailbox. Alfred dropped a letter inside before turning back toward the train.

Sarah Jane checked her mail two days later to find a letter from Alfred. The address and letter inside was written in pencil, the letter itself on notebook paper.

_Dear Sarah Jane, _

_I have to write this quickly, since I have to be at the train station in about half an hour. I just wanted to let you know that I'll be heading to Europe now. They haven't really told me where I'll be, and you'll understand that I can't tell you in case a letter gets intercepted. I'll write you once I get a bit of a permanent station. _

_But enough of that. I'll try to write as much as I can, when I can. _

_Thank you for last night. I've never had so much fun in my life. You've given me something to think about when I'll be alone, so then I won't really be alone at all. _

_I remember my promise. _

_Always yours, _

_Corporal Alfred F. Jones_


	2. Ludwig: 9-10 June, 1944

SS-Sturmanbannführer Ludwig Beilschmidt of the Waffen-SS straightened the collar of his uniform jacket as he jogged quickly down the steps of the hotel where he was staying. Passing a mirror at the bottom of the staircase, he stopped to glance at his reflection and adjust his cap. The glint of the silver totenkopf just above the bill of the cap, for some reason, made Ludwig pause. He stared at the thing, then slowly, his eyes panned down to his collar, his ranks, his jacket. Then at himself as a whole. Something was wrong. He just couldn't put his finger on what exactly that was though.

The question was why. After all, despite being drafted into the SS by force, Ludwig had everything going for him. He was climbing the ranks hand-over-fist. He was thought well of by both his superiors and his men. He had a beautiful fianceé back home in Berlin. So the question remained. What was off?

Before he could properly contemplate the answer, someone from behind him called out his name.

"Ludwig!"

Ludwig turned around to find himself face-to-face with a man with platinum blond hair that shimmered in the light, striking pink-tinted eyes that were the distinct mark of an albino, and an electric smile that was currently spread from one ear to the other.

It was his elder brother, Gilbert.

Ludwig smiled widely, something he hadn't done in what felt like forever.

"Bruder," he laughed as he moved to embrace his brother. Gilbert beat him to it, his arms wrapping around Ludwig's torso so tightly, Ludwig thought his chest was locked in a vice.

But he didn't care.

He threw his arms around Gilbert in return, his fingers grasping at Gilbert's jacket, hair, anything.

"How long has it been?" Ludwig asked. He pressed his cheek against GIlbert's ear and closed his eyes tightly, attempting to hold back the tears that were welling up in his eyes.

"Much too long," Gilbert replied. His voice broke ever so slightly on the work long.

"Understatement of the century," Ludwig laughed.

It truly was.

Over a year had passed since the two brothers had seen the other last. Their different SS infantry units had separated them, and any communication between the two quickly became impossible.

So they waited. And prayed.

That was all they could do.

They just prayed that they would see each other again, and not with the other in a pine box.

Now their prayers had been answered, and at this point, neither of the brothers could contain their tears of joy and relief. Frankly, neither of them wanted to.

Gilbert and Ludwig remained in the embrace for a few more moments before slowly drawing back so they could see the other's face.

"How've you been holding up?" Ludwig asked, his grin wide.

"Not half bad, actually," Gilbert replied, his grin even wider. "It's been rough, though. Lost good men." His grin faded quickly, as did Ludwig's.

"Haven't we all?" Ludwig remarked. "How many?"

"Since last month alone, thirty-seven."  
"Forty-three."

Gilbert nodded solemnly. He glanced at the ground quickly, then cleared his throat before meeting Ludwig's eyes again.

"The price of war, huh?"

Ludwig's eyes softened, and his lips spread into a sad smile. "Come on, GIlbert," he clapped his brother on the back. "Let your little bruder buy you a drink."

Gilbert grasped Ludwig around the shoulders and pulled him toward the door of the hotel.

"You can't get it in my hand fast enough."

Two beers and four shots of whiskey for each of them later, the two brothers sat at the bar together, talking about everything that had happened in the past year. The clock behind the bartender read one o'clock in the morning.

Ludwig nudged Gilvert in the arm and pointed to the clock. "I've got a meeting in the morning. How about one more round and we'll call it a night?"

"I'm not nearly drunk enough, but alright," Gilbert sighed. He signaled the bartender to fill their shot glasses once more. Once he did so, Gilbert raised his glass. Ludwig followed suit.

Gilbert toasted, his voice wavering slightly. "To our fallen brothers."  
"To our fallen brothers."

They tossed the whiskey back and slammed the glasses down in unison.

"Alright, let's get our of here," Gilbert muttered as he pushed his stool back.

"Right behind you, buddy," Ludwig replied.

The two got up, grabbed their caps, and left the bar.

Gilbert made sure to slam the door behind him.

When Ludwig awoke the next morning, the sun had just started to creep over the horizon and into the hotel room through the open window. Ludwig groaned and rubbed his eyes with his palms. He sat up and smiled when he glanced over to his right to see Gilbert still asleep on the couch, mouth open, hair in a mess, his uniform in a heap on the floor. Ludwig could just barely hear Gilbert's snore.

He flopped back down on the pillows with a sigh.

His brother was alive and asleep on the couch in his hotel room only ten feet away. They went drinking last night.

His brother was alive.

Ludwig closed his eyes and smiled softly.

With his brother home, he was whole again.

Yes, life was good.

Ludwig's alarm went off ten minutes later, the shrill beeping waking him up with a start. He hadn't even realized that he'd fallen back to sleep.

He slammed his fist onto the alarm clock on the bedside table, but missed the snooze button. With a muttered curse, he hit it again, significantly harder this time, and the beeping subsided.

Ludwig sat up and ran his fingers through his hair. He glanced to the couch and snickered. Gilbert was still asleep, and dead to the world.

Perfect.

Sliding his legs out from under the bed sheets, Ludwig got to his bare feet and began to tiptoe across the carpeted floor toward the sleeping Gilbert. He picked up a spare pillow as he passed the foot of the bed.

Standing over Gilbert and barely able to contain his giggles, Ludwig raised the pillow high above his head.

"Rise and shine, bruder!" Ludwig yelled as he brought the pillow down as hard as he could on Gilbert's face.

Gilbert then proceeded to scream, as Ludwig would put it, 'just like a little girl'.

"You dummkopf!" Gilbert roared, before he jumped off of the couch and tackled Ludwig to the ground, where he then proceeded to beat him nearly senseless with the pillow. By now, Ludwig was in stitches and crying tears of laughter.

After a few moments, Gilbert stopped and fell backwards onto the floor next to Ludwig.

"You know, I would have figured that you would have grown up by now," Gilbert laughed.

Ludwig scoffed. "Like you haven't either?"

GIlbert threw his hands up in mock surrender. "You did have to learn it from somewhere, didn't you?" He pushed himself up to his feet and walked over to where his SS uniform lay on the floor, ruffling Ludwig's hair as he passed.

While Gilbert was pulling his trousers on, Ludwig sat up and turned to face him.

"Hey," he said, a note of seriousness in his voice.

Gilbert looked over his shoulder at him.

"It's good to have you back."

Gilbert smiled and zipped up his trousers. "It's good to be back, little bruder. It is very good to be back."

Ludwig fiddled with the bridge of his reading glasses as he sat in the meeting later on that morning. Gilbert had already recounted for their superiors the most recent positions of his men and the enemy, along with what his men needed. It was the usual. Food, ammunition, medical supplies. It's what everyone asked for, every time, without fail. His superiors were becoming increasingly hard pressed to deliver, however. Supplies were running low, as was morale. Men were frustrated about being unable to travel to Normandy in a 'timely manner', due to railway lines being sabotaged and constant fighting against the French Resistance, giving them no rest. Ludwig knew that a few men in particular were even beginning to question whether the war was even worth fighting anymore, but he would never mention this. He too was beginning to question the validity of this fight, but only in his own private thoughts.

A knock sounded on the door at one end of the conference room. Ludwig didn't look up. It was common for messengers to interrupt meetings, but it was usually nothing that concerned him.

"Come in," the officer conducting the meeting, Adolf Diekmann, barked.

A messenger walked in quickly. In his hand was a yellow telegraph paper. His face was ashen. "This just came in, sir." He handed the telegraph to Diekmann, then left. His hand was shaking.

Diekmann watched the messenger leave, then opened the telegraph and read it to himself, his eyes urgently skimming the words. By the bottom of the page, his face had become beet red with fury. He balled the telegraph up in his fist and clenched his jaw. The crinkling of the paper sounded as loud as a gunshot in the silent conference room.

By now, Ludwig was paying attention. He set his glasses down on the table in front of him and sat up a touch straighter in his chair. All eyes were on Deikmann.

After a moment, Deikmann began to speak. His voice shook with rage.

"Kämpfe has been captured and executed by French Resistance." That was all he said.

Ludwig could feel the blood drain from his face. Helmut Kämpfe, commander of the III. Battalion, 4th SS Panzer Grenadier Regiment Der Führer, 2nd SS Panzer Division Das Reich, dead. He couldn't believe it.

And judging from the looks on everyone else's faces, neither could they. Eyebrows were furrowed, mouths were agape, teeth were clenched. From out of the corner of his eye, Ludwig could see Gilbert put his head in his hands.

"That's it," Diekmann shouted as he pushed his chair back from the table violently and lurched to his feet. "This is the last straw! I am sick of dealing with these French dogs!" He pounded his fist on the table after every word. "All of you, listen to me! Gather your men. We are going to repay them for this. Today!"

Deikmann stormed out of the room, all the while shouting orders and obscenities. When the door slammed shut, no one moved for a full five seconds.

Gilbert was the first to stand. When he spoke, his voice was sad. "Well, you heard him. Gather everyone together and be ready for God-knows-what."

Everyone else stood and filed out of the conference room in silence until it was only Ludwig and Gilbert remaining.

Gilbert hung his head and whispered, "God forgive us for what is about to happen, whatever it is."

Ludwig said nothing as he slowly got to his feet and left the room. Orders were orders. He had to go gather his men.


	3. Francis: 9-10 June, 1944

Francis Bonnefoy knew that he was never truly much for ground combat.

His battlefield was the air above.

All of the open space of the skies gave him the freedom that he so craved, and also an escape from the carnage and constant bloodshed below.

But deep down at the heart of it, the real reason Francis fought from the air was so that he didn't have to see the light leave his enemy's eyes as they died. This was the real reason Francis had chosen to put his pilot skills to use for the Resistance.

He had been working with them in various capacities since the beginning, whether it was intelligence gathering or smuggling British troops across the border. He decided that there was nothing that he was unwilling or unable to do to aid the cause to free his people from German oppression, including putting his own life on the line. This he did frequently, much to the chagrin of his younger sister, Estelle.

Estelle, who was three years Francis' junior, would never let on that she fully supported her brother's dangerous work, because she did, but she protested the constant placement of himself in jeopardy. However, anyone who knew her at all would say that she was just as patriotic as any other Frenchman. She even protested the German occupation in her own little ways, most notably when she passed a German officer eating at a café and 'accidentally' spilled her glass of red wine all over the front of his freshly pressed uniform. Also, she took the napkin and made sure to rub the stain in, not out.

Secretly, she had always been particularly proud of that moment, more so than anything else she had done to resist. She wasn't entirely sure why, but she eventually settled with the fact that thinking about that incident gave her a glimmer of hope that even regular people like her could fight back in some shape, fashion, or form.

Hope was what kept her going through the long years of the occupation, and that hope spread easily to Francis.

But right now, hundreds of feet above the ground, with his plane's engine roaring in his ears and the cracks of gunfire in the night all around him, that hope was slipping away, and fast. He had lost the element of surprise, and he was running out of odds that said that he was going to get out of here alive.

It was supposed to be just a reconnaissance mission to get the lay of the land before sundown… But ever since the sun disappeared beneath the horizon as he had turned toward home, everything had started to go wrong…

A bullet crashed through the glass windshield, narrowly missing his head. He managed to duck just in time, but it was freak luck. Francis' hands were shaking now, and sweat began to prickle at the back of his neck and on his forehead. A massive crash on his left and a jolt to match rocked his small plane, nearly sending Francis spinning to the ground below. A swift glance over his shoulder confirmed his fear. The rudder on the left wing was mostly gone now, but there was enough left so that he would still be able to steer… At least that's what he hoped.

Francis leaned over and snatched his map from where it was pinned up on his right. His eyes skimmed over it as best they could in the moonlight before he balled the map up and threw it angrily against the console, cursing loudly.

He had so far to go until he was in safe air. He was running low on fuel and faith, and he honestly doubted whether his little plane would make it. With this rudder shot, he was practically a sitting duck. _Might as well hold up a sign that says "Hey! Shoot me!" _he thought to himself.

Another bullet tore through his plane, this time up from the floor of the cockpit by his feet. He jerked to the side, again narrowly missing the bullet.

Sweat dripped from Francis' brow and ran down his temple, tickling his skin. The distance on the map wormed its way back to the forefront of his mind, along with the growing certainty of just how deep in trouble he had become. Another bullet dinged against the cockpit, and Francis' left arm flew up instinctively in a feeble attempt to shield his head. His breathing became more ragged and shallow with each passing second, because he realized that every passing second brought him closer to the ground, and therefore his own demise.

And he would be truly alone.

There was one thing in the world that Francis feared more than anything, and that was becoming infinitely and irreversibly alone. So, to prevent this from happening, Francis surrounded himself with anyone and everyone he could. He was never known to ever be single for long. In his mind, as long as a crowd of people was near, he could never possibly be alone.

Oh, but how truly alone he was.

Outside of his sister, no one cared enough to actually know him. All of the girls loved to be seen on the arm of Francis Bonnefoy, and to say that they spent the night in his arms, but they never cared to look past the face that they called beautiful and see the lonely man who was buried underneath.

A red light began to blink just to the right of a set of fuel gauges.

Francis began to pale.

The fuel tank was leaking.

He cursed bitterly and slammed his fist into the console. "_Pièce inutile de merde_!" he shouted at his plane, which droned on loudly into the dark, unconcerned by his outburst.

He was starting to realize the very real possibility that he very well could die tonight. That this could be it, and he was afraid. But the thought of crashing his plane and surviving entered his mind. And at that, he was terrified. If he survived the crash, the Germans would surely find him and take him prisoner to be tortured for any information that he had. And he had quite a bit. But he would never talk, how could he? He'd be betraying his own people. But the thought of that even happening… And the possibility of…

Francis' eyes drifted down to his right, just between the side of the cockpit and his seat. In that little space was a pistol. One shot. It was only for use in the worst case scenario: If he were to crash behind enemy lines and the enemy proved to be too overwhelming to escape… Well, he preferred that to being subject to the enemy's interrogation in an attempt to extract anything they could from him. He wouldn't want to say anything, but he knew he couldn't hold out for forever. Every man has his breaking point. However, he wanted to make sure the enemy never got a chance to make it that far with him. Some might deem his plan the coward's way out, but he couldn't think of a more courageous and noble thing to do if faced with the choice. Ending it before it even had the chance to start was safer than risking all the things you know-along with the lives that are tied to it.

Francis' eyes lingered on the place where his hope lay if worst came to worst before he jerked his eyes back up to the night sky, adrenaline suddenly flooding his veins anew.

He wasn't about to let these German pigs shoot him down.

He was going to get himself home.

There was no way he was going to let them win.

Not now.

Not ever.

The next two hours were a blur. If you had asked, Francis wouldn't be able to tell you a thing about what had happened outside of "I flew my plane and tried not to die". He honestly couldn't remember. One thing stood out to him though, and that was the moment he saw the lights of the tiny little airfield that the Resistance had managed to hold on to.

When he saw those twinkling little lights, Francis couldn't contain his relief. He wept as his landing gear scraped against the runway, squealing and sending pieces of gravel flying in every direction in his wake.

After taxiing his plane under a hangar and killing the engine, he slumped over the wheel and took a moment to breathe. It was all over. He was finally back on the ground, safe.

After drawing a couple of shaky breaths, Francis sat up once again and checked his watch. It was nearly midnight. He sighed deeply and ran his still-trembling fingers through his sweaty hair before pulling it back and clamboring out of the cockpit. His face lit up with a huge smile when he heard the thud of his boots against the concrete.

_To be on the ground again, _Francis thought to himself, _is a wonderful thing indeed. _

Francis didn't live terribly far from the airfield. The house that he and Estelle shared was only about three miles from the it. Due to the secretive nature of the airfield however, any rebel who wanted to get there usually had to walk from the next town over, then through fields and woods, before they reached the tiny airfield. Francis was one of the lucky ones who didn't have to walk for more than an hour to reach it. Also, there were hardly any German soldiers who were stationed permanently in his town, so it was easy for him to slip out unnoticed.

He had never been caught or associated with the Resistance, and that was something he was truly grateful for. Most anyone who was tied to the rebels was shot, minus a lucky few. He was safe, at least for now.

It was nearly one o'clock in the morning by the time he reached the front steps of he and Estelle's small house. The moon was shrouded in thick clouds, and the shadows reached their long, black fingers into every dark corner. Francis dropped his bag filled with his things on the steps heavily and turned the knob, and he frowned upon finding the door locked. Estelle always left the door unlocked until he got home at night, and she usually would be found sitting in their small living room on the sofa, reading a book in the lamplight, waiting for him to come home.

This locked door was strange indeed.

His interest piqued, Francis picked up his bag again, and with it slung over one shoulder, walked briskly around the side of the house to the back steps. A strip of yellow light bathed the three stone steps that led up to the back door. That light streamed out from the door, which was open about three inches. The door jam was broken to only splinters, and the deadbolt was down.

Estelle had locked the door, and someone subsequently had kicked it in.

Francis' heart sank like a stone.

"ESTELLE!" Francis screamed at the top of his lungs. His bag, which he had dropped to the ground the second he had seen the light on the steps, was long forgotten, as was everything that had happened over the past few hours. Nothing else in the world mattered more than getting inside that house.

He leapt up the steps in one jump and flung the door open. In his panic, he very nearly took the door off its hinges.

The next three seconds were the longest and most horrifying three seconds in all of Francis' life, and he would never forget what it was that he saw. Every detail was instantly seared into his mind's eye, and never would he close his eyes without reliving this night.

The kitchen was the first thing to strike him. It was completely torn apart. Cabinets hung open, the table was overturned, broken plate shards littered the floor. A drawer where Francis kept a pistol hidden was pulled open, and it was missing from its normal resting place.

All of this, Francis took in during the first second. At the start of the second, his eyes drifted up from the scene in the kitchen and beheld the living room.

It too was completely destroyed. The lamp was broken on the floor, and end table was turned on its side, newly missing one of its legs. The sofa where Estelle spent her evenings was disheveled, its pillows and cushions ripped and vomiting white feathers into the air. Smears of blood on the cream wall by the window and on the carpet were obvious to anyone who could see, and they screamed panic in Francis' mind.

The second of the three seconds had passed. The third would mark the beginning of the rest of Francis' life as he would know it.

He now saw Estelle.

Her body was in a twisted heap in the corner. From where he stood across the house, he could make out the blood and bruises on her face and arms. Despite the shadows, he could see her eyes. They were open. He could also see her clothes. They were ripped to the point that they were in tatters.

But what ripped his heart straight out of his chest was the fact that they were lying, scattered, on the other side of the living room.

Francis screamed. No, it wasn't even that. Scream is too human a word. The sound that came out of Francis' mouth wasn't human at all, but it was the wail of an animal who is dying. His feet began to move. He couldn't see where he was going though through his tears, but after a moment of stumbling and crashing into walls and cabinets, he came upon Estelle.

His knees fell out from underneath him, and he hit the living room floor. His arms grasped desperately at his sister, pulling her body close to his. "Mon petit moineau," he wept into her hair as he stroked it with a shaking hand, "Tell me, what happened to you?"

The very last thing he expected was for her to reply.

"There were five."

The sudden and startling way she said it, so matter-of-factly, it sounded as if she were commenting about the weather. The mere fact that she spoke-that she was alive-nearly made Francis drop her out of surprise.

"Estelle! Mon Dieu, you're alive!" Fresh tears of relief and joy cascaded down his cheeks. "Sister, I'm so sorry, forgive me…" Francis could no longer speak. He only wept.

Estelle, on the other hand, did not reply. Nor did she react in any way to her brother.

Francis very quickly reached to his right and grabbed a blanket that had fallen onto the floor. With it, he wrapped Estelle up and picked her up in his arms. "I'm taking you somewhere for you to get help," he whispered to her as he carried her out the door and into the night.

He would take her to see Adelina. She'd know what to do.

As Francis raced to the hospital, he had failed to notice the glint of something metal by one of the wooden feet of the sofa. The metallic glint of… could it be… A silver Death's Head.


End file.
